My black-and-gray rooster crows.
The sound of birds’ chatter
filters through the morning.
I open the icy gate
and walk the familiar trail.

A cool, damp haze
swirls around me.
I carry the rusty bucket
filled with a ton of feed;
It pours like sifting sand
into the concrete trough.

Cowbells reverberate
as they prance over the hill.
Stopping beneath my willow tree,
I watch them eat.

I turn around
to head home,
But first I pick the first
Wild buttercup.